


Squashed Fruit

by chasethatbluesky



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Bruised Plums, Fluff, Fred Thursday is worried about Morse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Examination, Poor old Morse, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 19:25:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10748223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasethatbluesky/pseuds/chasethatbluesky
Summary: Having grown tired of watching Morse gingerly creep around the station with a barely-masked expression of deep pain, Fred Thursday decides to take matters into his own hands and strong-arm the constable into the nearest acceptable Doctor's office – which they eventually agree on being DeBryn's morgue.





	Squashed Fruit

DI Fred Thursday walked into Cowley Police Station a few minutes later than normal, having taken a little morning detour to his favourite tobacconist on the way in to work. He'd chosen to waver his usual lift in with Morse the previous day, having spotted that the already subdued constable looked more than a little out of sorts during a mid-morning trip out to one of the colleges, even though in the end the incident they'd been called to cast an eye over amounted to little more than a slap on the wrist for minor criminal damage. He thought that Morse was perhaps coming down with something, figuring that the lad might benefit from a little extra lie-in if he didn't have to come and fetch his boss at the crack of dawn. And besides, Thursday knew that he himself could do with the walk every now and then, especially since Win had gotten it into her head recently that he was looking a little 'peaky' – which, in her vernacular, simply meant that she felt he needed more than his usual already generous ration of food on his plate. He didn't have the heart to tell her otherwise.

Reaching the CID department, Thursday hung up his hat and coat on the stand and headed towards his office at the far end of the space. He spotted Strange and the other usual faces about the place, including Morse, who was sat at his corner desk in a curiously awkward-looking way, with an even curiouser expression on his face, seemingly trying hard to blend into the background as much as possible so as to avoid any human interaction.

“Morning, Morse. How's th—“

“I'm _fine_ , sir. Really.”

Thursday stopped in his tracks and looked at his off-colour bagman with a bemused – and frankly _unimpressed_ – expression, having not been allowed to finish his opening sentence to the man before he was duly cut-off. “I was _going_ to ask you how you'd gotten on yesterday at the coroner's inquest,” he responded rather tartly, “if you'd of let me finish...”

Morse winced a little and shrunk back gingerly into his seat, reeling from jumping the gun. “I'm sorry, sir. I just thought you'd—“

“Just thought what? That my day revolves entirely upon knowing if you rolled out of your bed safely?” Thursday chided in his characteristically flat way, his tone giving no indication on whether he was jesting or not. “It may come as a surprise to you, constable, but I'm actually more inclined to know if I can put our long-gestating case to rest. If that's alright with you, of course...”

Taking the retort on the chin, Morse rose from his chair carefully as Thursday passed him and entered his office, trying hard not to let any hint of pain show on his features. “The coroner agreed with our verdict of accidental death,” he offered succinctly, hovering in the doorway as Thursday took his seat. “He's given the green light for the family estate to pass to the deceased man's next-of-kin, pending the payment of all relevant tax duties, of course.”

Thursday nodded in satisfaction of the conclusion. “Good. Then let's move on to more pressing matters, such as your upcoming sergeant’s exam. I assume you've been sent a date by now?”

Morse unconsciously winced a little again, causing his sinewy features to wrinkle slightly. “The beginning of next month,” he confirmed dryly, raising an arm to run his hand down the back of his head, smarting a third time from the movement.

Thursday watched him closely, bringing his empty pipe to his lips. “You get much sleep last night?” he asked out the corner of his mouth, hating the fact that he now indeed sounded like a mother hen. “Only you've been looking a little worse for wear the past couple of days.”

Answering the query with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, Morse threw a thumb over his shoulder. “If there was nothing else, sir, I thought I might help Strange this morning with that case of criminal damage out at Davids?”

Thursday reached out for his pipe scrapper then sat back into his chair. “By all means.”

Morse nodded then turned and left the office doorway, disappearing into the general hubbub of the department. Thursday continued watching the younger man through the opened blinds of his window for a while, noting how even from the back Morse appeared to be schooling his movements rather carefully. It also didn't escape his notice that Morse was avoiding taking a seat whenever possible, even when he went over mid-morning to speak with Strange.

“Do you have a minute?” Morse asked the recently promoted Detective Constable, having returned from a lengthy trip to the evidence room.

“Of course, pull up a pew,” Strange replied genially, offering out the chair on the opposite side of his desk with his hand. His smile appeared reassuringly genuine.

“If it's all the same, I'll stand,” Morse returned thinly, offering a brief half-smile in apology.

Strange frowned a little. “ _Oh_. You alright, Matey?”

“Yes, just a touch of back ache is all. Too much time sitting in one position.”

Strange seemed satisfied by the excuse. “I know what you mean. For me, it used to be standing on duty. Didn't half play havoc with my _lumbar_ , whatever that it...”

The two detectives soon settled onto the subject of their current investigation, spending a few minutes going over the accrued facts as Morse leaned forward a little and propped himself up against Strange's desk, resting his weight lightly on his knuckles. Strange noted but chose to dismiss the decided paleness of Morse's complexion, granting his fellow colleague the autonomy of managing his own health. After all, Strange didn't quite know what a “good” day actually looked like for Morse, given that the younger man seemed to perpetually appear in need of a good meal and a full night's sleep.

As the conversation moved on to a new point of enquiry, Morse suddenly stiffened and hissed in discomfort as a colleague sought to innocently squeeze past behind him, flinching noticeably as the passing man ghosted a hand briefly on his back to let him know he was there.

“Morse?” Strange queried seriously, becoming instantly concerned with the man's pained reaction and quickly-drained features.

Exhaling a large breath before eventually opening his eyes, which had clamped tightly shut in an extended wince, Morse half-raised a hand to dismiss the enquiry. “It's nothing. Just gave me a start is all.”

“You must _hate_ fireworks night, then,” Strange offered blithely, his expression still concerned after hearing the feeble excuse.

Morse didn't reply except for a issuing small huff that presumably was intended to be a self-effacing chuckle.

“Morse, if you've got a minute, might I have a word?” Thursday's resonant voice announced his arrival back into the main CID department, which neither Morse nor Strange had spotted. Strange looked over to Thursday in near-awe, having always admired his guv'nor's ability to move about with cat-like stealth.

Morse, however, was not so enthralled by Thursday's suspect appearance, liking his request even less. “Of course, sir,” he nonetheless replied evenly, wondering what the older man wanted.

“Good. Follow me.”

Thursday promptly walked the length of the CID office and hovered by the far door, waiting for Morse to begin following him before he disappeared into the main corridor which led to the front of the station. As they walked down the corridor together, Thursday knowingly slowing up a fraction so as to accommodate Morse's markably reduced pace, the Inspector then paused outside the door to the main locker room, which was ajar.

“In here, Morse,” he directed softly, making sure to keep his request out of earshot of those nearby.

Confused, Morse nonetheless did as he was told, walking into the centre of the room, discerning quickly that it was otherwise empty. He silently wished that someone had left open a window, as the overriding aroma of used socks was a mite overbearing.

Thursday followed in and pushed the door gently closed behind him, taking a cursory glance around the room to confirm for himself that they were indeed alone before closing the gap between them. “Right. Come on, out with it. What's the matter with you?”

Surprised by the sudden question – which felt more like the opening to an interrogation than a concerned query – Morse instantly went on the defensive. “I told you, sir, I'm f—“

“I didn't ask for the _official_ verdict,” interrupted Thursday. “I asked what's bothering you. It's clearly something – you can barely walk.”

Morse visibly squirmed under the heavy weight of Thursday's close glare, his eyes darting either side of the Inspector's frame for any means of escape. They promptly dulled as no route was found. His gaze fell.

Thursday simmered irritably. “What, am I going to have to guess?!” he exclaimed, holding out his hands. Despite the poor light, he couldn't help but send his eyes over the constable in an effort to assess his current state, looking over Morse's face and hands for any signs of injury as well as his clothes for any tell-tale bloody patches that might indicate a hidden wound. “I've been watching you all morning. You're moving about more gingerly than my Win did when I used to work nights. Can't pull the wool over my eyes.”

Seeing that there was no escape, Morse sighed and dropped his shoulders. “I, uhh, I picked up a small injury, the other day, at that womens' protest march I attended.”

Thursday's eyes narrowed. “That student one that went through the streets past the colleges on Sunday?” he asked, pointing his chin in Morse's direction. “What were you doing there?”

“Mr Bright asked me to go, sir,” Morse explained. “Said I'd blend in better with the crowd than any of the other officers. My orders were keep an eye on the key orchestrators of the march – division already had most of them on file – in case they came into contact with any known local trouble-makers...”

“They had intel to suggest the march leaders were collaborating with some close-home talent, did they?” Thursday queried. “Thought they were perhaps looking for ways to make their protest pack more of a _punch_?”

“That was the theory,” confirmed Morse.

Ever the copper, Thursday's mind was already starting to build up a picture of the case, sorting out the players and making connections. However, he had to remind himself that this was _not_ his mission right now – he needed to stay focused and get to the bottom of what was wrong with Morse. “So what happened?” he asked, maintaining the pace of the conversation in a conscious effort to keep Morse talking. “Did you confront one of these _ringleaders_? Get into a scuffle or something?”

Morse shook his head a little, his eyes hazing slightly as he sought to recall the events of that day. He winced a fraction. “No, in the end I didn't see much of the organisers. Nothing worth reporting, anyway.” He then looked directly up at Thursday, seeing the older man's resolute anticipation for his explanation. The rather oversized 'obliging detective' part of his brain sought to give his superior what he wanted. “Despite all the official precautions of the city council, during the afternoon a brawl broke out amongst two rival protest groups – the Womens' Liberation Front and the United Womens' League – and I was in the vicinity as things deteriorated. It took the uniforms almost fifteen minutes to tear the fight apart in the end...”

“And what were you doing during this time?” Thursday asked, though by now he already had a very good idea.

“I—Well, I was caught up in it. Between the narrow street and the size of the crowd, there was really little chance of escape.”

Things were starting to make much more sense for Thursday. “So, you took a blow or two in the commotion,” he posited, broadly generalising what he sensed to be the start of the true explanation behind Morse's hidden burden. “Got the wind knocked out of you, perhaps? It's known to happen on the job sometimes, Morse. Nothing to be ashamed of in admitting.” A thought then occurred to him. “Is that what this has all been about? The fact that you got your injured amongst a group of women?”

Morse sneered. “No, sir. It's nothing to do with that. And besides, there were plenty of men at the protest too. Almost an equal amount, in fact.”

“Alright, so you perhaps received a blow or two from both women and men during this commotion,” Thursday retorted. “That doesn't mean your injury may be any less serious. Come on, what are we talking about? Bruised ribs? Guts ache? Wounded pride?”

“All of the above...” Morse exhaled dimly, almost as an afterthought, his unamused eyes glancing away in what Thursday judged to be more self-disgust than anything else. His pained expression, however, continued to paint a more vivid picture than his words, and he failed to completely swallow down another wince as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Knowing that there was _still_ more that was being left unsaid, Thursday decided he was getting tired of this game of cat-and-mouse. He needed to know how bad Morse was hurt. His mind was already conjuring distressing images of what the younger man might be hiding, knowing Morse's _penchant_ for suffering in silence. He wouldn't even put it past Morse to be carrying another serious slash wound or something equally as grim, given that the younger man's face was as white as a sheet. The thought chilled Thursday to the bone.

Moving away from Morse, Thursday walked over to the locker room door and dropped the latch, essentially locking himself and Morse inside the musty, airless room. He then returned to Morse, his expression flat but resolute. “Let's have a look at you, then,” he said calmly, dropping his gaze and pointing a finger at Morse's torso, which he'd noticed the younger man instinctively guarding with his stance since the very beginning of their conversation. He hated putting the sensitive lad on the spot, forcibly invading his privacy, but he couldn't shake the very real fear that Morse wouldn't otherwise part with the truth.

Sensing that any more stalling would result in _actual_ bodily-harm being inflicted upon him in exasperation by Thursday, Morse begrudgingly complied, undoing the buttons of his suit jacket before taking a hand full of his shirt and vest and pulling them free of the waistband of his trousers, hiking them both around half way up his torso, exposing a florid cloud of dark bruising that looked very painful indeed.

Thursday looked upon the injury and winced. “Christ, Morse! It looks like you've been trampled by a herd of elephants, not caught up amidst a few rowdy teens!”

“I fell under the main crowd at one point,” admitted Morse grimly, holding still reluctantly as Thursday looked him over.

“What, someone catch you in the head or something?” Thursday guessed, leaning forward slightly to glance over Morse's lower back, catching sight of yet _more_ deep bruising, some of which held a distinct boot-type outline.

“ _Umm_ , no. It was more a... low blow,” Morse admitted, swallowing heavily at the memory. “Caught me by surprise.”

Returning to his full height, Thursday took one final glance of Morse's belly, seeing that the bruises showed no signs of stopping at the belt-line of his trousers. Now he really _was_ starting to understand Morse's predicament. He winced a little in sympathy. Picking up a groin-centred injury was something every man dreaded, no matter the odds which dictated that it was an almost inevitable occurrence to suffer at one point or another in life. Whether on the football pitch, or just about any daily situation when others might get too close, accidentally or otherwise, a man was surprisingly vulnerable to being resoundingly floored by something as simple as an errant knee. However, Thursday knew as much as the next man that on most occasions the discomfort, though certainly painful in the extreme at first, tended to subside quite quickly. Certainly within a day or so, unless the blow was more severe in its ferocity. From the way Morse was behaving, Thursday guessed the younger man knew too that his apparent injury was potentially more serious than average, given the extended period of his discomfort.

“It happens to all of us, Morse,” Thursday offered in a conciliatory tone, taking a half-step back to give the younger man before him a bit more space. “Just ask my Sam. He took a hit just last month during a Rugby match. Wasn't until late afternoon that he could even sit down...” He then narrowed his eyes and looked at the now profusely blushing Morse with what he hoped was a more fatherly expression of concern. “You still suffering now, then?” he posed gently, holding back from asking more personal questions such as if the lad had passed any blood, after all he wasn't a bloody doctor!

Morse nodded meekly. “More than I'd anticipated.”

“Well, why on earth have you not gotten yourself checked out?!” Thursday asked.

Morse looked up. “I thought it would get better in a couple of days,” he argued weakly. “Only...”

“Only it hasn't, has it?” Thursday finished for him.

Morse shook his head dejectedly. “It's just... It's not something you really want to discuss, is it? And besides, if I see a doctor it'll have to go on my record, _and_ in the written report. You know what it would be like if the others get wind of it. I'd have cushions left on my seat for months...”

 _Not to mention bruised plums in your bottom drawer_ , thought Thursday wryly.

“If I can just get to the end of the week, I'll have time to properly recover over the weekend,” said Morse, though even he appeared unconvinced by his paper-thin rationale.

“Morse, today is only Tuesday,” Thursday countered. “You can't expect me to just sit back and watch you gingerly tip-toe about the station for another three-and-a-half days because you're too bloody proud to get yourself seen to. This needs to to be taken care of now.”

Unflattered by his superior's insistence of sticking his oar in, and feeling more than even his usual finely-tuned levels of embarrassment at the situation, Morse scoffed and threw his eyes in the air like a sullen teen, hating the fact that he was once again being given little governance over his own actions.

In response to the anticipated 'throwing of toys', Thursday fixed Morse with a defiant expression of authority, one honed through years of facing stroppy children and constables. “So, which is it going to be?” he eventually intoned, leaving little doubt that his next words were going to be gospel. “Are you going to go down the hall to the Station Doctor's office now, or am I going to have to bench you for the rest of the week and drive you up to the Radcliffe myself – whereby I will _insist_ that you be personally examined by _every_ doctor _and_ nurse on duty? You choose.”

Morse grimaced at his options. “No, sir, please, not Doctor McNally,” he implored, naming the stern and rather decrepit Cowley Station physician he'd made a point of avoided in the past. “He'll insist on taking me off-duty for at least a fortnight, not to mention write me out a prescription to rival the _Magna Carta_.”

Thursday sighed heavily. “Alright, what about DeBryn, then? He's seen you in a medical capacity before. Several times, if I recall.”

Though still reluctant to even _entertain_ the idea of going willingly under any Doctor's microscope, the thought of DeBryn's reassuringly impassive eye upon his ailment sated Morse a little, given that the man had indeed patched him up once or twice in the past without any unnecessary fuss. He offered a tiny nod of assent to Thursday, which in turn sated the older man too.

“Right, that's settled then. I'll see you out in the car in five minutes.”

Thursday retreated back to the locker room door and freed the latch, leaving without another word on the subject. Morse remained still for a moment, until he remembered that his shirt and vest were still untucked from his trousers, making him look decidedly more _dishevelled_ to any casual passing onlooker than was reasonably explainable. He fixed himself back to a more-or-less respectable level of smartness and left the locker room, creeping gingerly through the station to pick up his coat before following Thursday outside. Thursday was already in the driving seat of the jaguar, filling up his pipe idly with tobacco as he waited for Morse to join him.

Morse took his time to get into the passenger's side, feeling a small measure of relief from the knowledge that he could at least forgo hiding his all-round discomfort now that Thursday was aware he was injured. Once he was finally in and settled, Thursday returned his pipe to its home in his coat pocket and started the engine. They were at the Radcliffe Hospital in less than fifteen minutes, parking as close to the entrance as they could.

One level down from the main emergency room, Dr Max DeBryn's mortuary and pathology lab was, as DeBryn often rather whimsically put it himself, “as silent as the grave”. With no current occupants to speak of, the chilled rooms seemed curiously bereft of purpose. Thursday and Morse entered into the darkened space with matching frowns, having thought to find their colleague in residence.

“Perhaps Dr DeBryn is on call?” said Morse, just about hiding the tiny note of optimism from his voice at the prospect of his examination being postponed.

“We'd of heard about it if he was,” Thursday pointed out, his deep voice carrying in the wide space, echoing off the shiny white tiles that covered the walls.

The noise appeared to stir someone in a nearby room. A seemingly disembodied head then duly poked out from an open doorway to see whom had crossed the threshold into their domain. Morse's brief optimism quickly dissipated as the sight of DeBryn confirmed the eccentric doctor was very much in residence and seemingly un-busy at present.

“Ah, Inspector. Constable,” DeBryn offered in his unique fashion. “What brings you both to my door? I've not been informed of any incoming _guests_ this afternoon.”

“Doctor DeBryn,” Morse offered humourlessly, offering the bespectacled man a small nod as he and Thursday proceeded to walk over to the room the doctor was currently occupying.

Pausing just inside what appeared to be a chemicals storage room, Thursday took the lead, hoping to make this as painless as possible. “We were wondering, Doctor, if you'd help us out a little. See, Morse took a pretty bad fall the other day and has yet to be properly given the once over.”

Restoring a large glass jar half-filled with some unknown orange liquid to its rightful place on a nearby shelf, DeBryn took a quick glance up and down Morse then returned his gaze to Thursday. “I assume there is a _particular_ reason why you haven't sought medical council with your own station's physician?”

The corner of Thursday's mouth snagged, though his expression remained impassive. “Oh, you know how it is, Doc. Sometimes things look worse on paper than they do in the cold light of day. Our own Doctor McNally is a consummate professional, like your good self, but his mandate leaves him duty-bound to log all injuries acquired by an officer during the course of his or her duty. Even if it's not strictly relevant to the case in hand...”

DeBryn stared at Thursday with a non-plussed expression. It was clear he knew what was being asked – or rather specifically _not_ being asked – of him. He then looked over to Morse. “What's the damage?” he enquired flatly.

Morse swallowed glumly. “I got caught up in a public scuffle a couple of days ago...”

“Caught _under_ it, more like,” corrected Thursday.

“And you acquired an injury?” probed DeBryn.

“Just bruises, more than anything else...” Morse trailed, averting his eyes to the walls in a feigned attempt to display disinterest.

“Come off it, Morse. There's no point in light-footing around the issue now,” cajoled Thursday, who turned back to DeBryn to put the case forward like a father explaining for his child. “The lad can hardly move, let alone _sit_. It's clearly something beyond just bruising.”

DeBryn's eyes narrowed. “I see.”

Morse couldn't hide the small blush that began to creep up his neck, sending a familiar hand up to run his finger underneath his collar as if to release the built-up volume of blood. Not since school had he acquired the sort of injuries he was carrying now, and back then he'd been allowed – even _expected_ – to simply get on with it and allow the healing process to take its course.

Sensing Morse's unease, DeBryn sighed under his breath and gently pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose a little. He then looked directly at Morse once again, his expression already somewhat mellowed. “Well then, I suppose we'd best take a look at you, constable,” he issued gently, adding with a slightly more nuanced air, “If you'll accept my help?”

Morse stared at the Doctor with his large blue eyes for a long moment, before swallowing and nodding his head. “Yes. Thank-you,” he offered gutturally, barely managing to mask his embarrassment.

“Right,” said DeBryn, taking charge of the situation. “If you'll follow me, then, to my office just across the way,” he said, pointing out of the storage room door towards the room itself with his forehead, “I can take a proper look at you on a regular examination table. Save you stretching out on my _slab_ prematurely...”

Looking over to Thursday, whom merely nodded in concurrence, Morse lowered his head in apparent defeat and followed the doctor across the corridor to his office. Thursday followed too but then stopped at the doctor's door, unsure as to whether he'd be needed by DeBryn to bear witness anything in particular, or perhaps even assist with Morse if he either deteriorated or became uncooperative, which both appeared to be possibilities at this point.

Morse hovered in the middle of the room, looking at the exam table that ran along a side wall. “Do you want me to sit on the table?”

“It's alright, Morse. I haven't had any corpses on this one,” DeBryn offered over his shoulder, having turned his back in order to place his examination equipment neatly on his desk. “At least not today. Just take your clothes off and leave them over there on the chair. I've just turned the radiator up so it shouldn't be too cold in here.”

Morse froze. “My clothes?” he echoed, suddenly feeling both trapped and rather exposed in the middle of the small room, standing directly between the doctor and his watching boss.

DeBryn turned around from his desk and looked at Morse without a hint of any abiding emotion on his face. “Yes, Morse. I can hardly examine you through multiple layers of fabric. Unless you can tell me that your ailment runs merely to something along the lines of a broken finger? In which case you can belay my last.”

Giving a regretful shake of his head before issuing a non-plussed frown, Morse's attention then flicked over to Thursday.

“It's alright – you're amongst friends,” DeBryn offered soothingly, sensing Morse's profound discomfort.

Seeing that the doctor had everything in hand, and getting the distinct impression that his presence was no longer required, Thursday made his excuses. “Right, I'll see you back in the car when you're done,” he said, fishing out his pipe from his pocket and holding it up to show his intentions. He offered DeBryn a slow nod then made his way out, leaving Morse alone with the pathologist.

“Shall we get started?” said DeBryn, who went and closed the office door before pulling on a pair of medical gloves. “I'd hate for us to be interrupted by an arrival of a dearly departed from upstairs. You know they always tend to go in the morning, just before lunch.”

Finding little solace in the pathologist's bedside chatter, Morse watched as DeBryn then walked over to the corner of the room and started up a mini record player, placing a small 45” record on the turntable. Moments later, the smooth sounds of a Bach oratorio began to fill the room.

“I hear you're a fellow connoisseur of music,” DeBryn mused. “I myself find great pleasure in listening to a record or two during the early hours of a night shift. Gives the place a bit of _warmth_.”

Feeling indeed warmed – if also a little bemused – by the new aural accompaniment to his examination, Morse began to remove his outer clothes, finding the action both difficult and intermittently painful as his battered torso muscles twisted and stretched to accommodate his task. DeBryn remained turned away throughout the ordeal, ostensibly rearranging his instruments on his desk, giving Morse the small curtesy of privacy despite their close proximity.

When he finally heard Morse sit down on the examination table with an audible hiss of pain, DeBryn turned and walked over to his new patient, starting his examination without a pause. He soon came upon the area of deep bruising hidden under Morse's vest that flowed all the way around his middle, easily discerning that the expansive pattern was the result of multiple blows from everything from fists and elbows to knees and boots. He then came upon similar bruising poking out from under the hem of Morse's undershorts, guessing that the younger man was probably sitting on yet more bruising that had yet to see the light of day. He took time to examine Morse's kidneys and lower ribs, finding both to be rather battered and bruised in of themselves, asking the odd question as the need arose. He then got Morse to lie on his back, waiting for the injured man to settle before gently probing his stomach, methodically checking each area in turn.

“You say you took a fall recently,” DeBryn queried. “I wonder, was it amongst a large group of people?"

“A gang of angry student protesters,” Morse confirmed. He flinched as DeBryn's fingers probed his lower abdomen.

“And did you receive any particularly _hard_ blows? Especially to your midsection?”

“It would seem rather evident,” Morse replied glumly, wincing and flinching again as DeBryn's examination travelled lower still.

Finishing his abdominal assessment, DeBryn retracted his hands and turned towards Morse. He knew his next question was going to be difficult for the younger man to bear, but he had to ask all the same. “Morse, I must ask – did you receive any injury to your groin area? I only enquire out of professional concern, not to pry.”

Morse swallowed thickly then gave a small nod. “I took at least one clean blow, then several glancing shots when I was on the ground, both front and back,” he admitted dimly. “The crowd were so tightly packed together, everyone was stepping on everyone else.”

“And have you suffered from any lingering problems from these blows? Pain? Swelling?”

“I thought at first that one of them may have cracked my tailbone,” said Morse. “But since then I've just been... in pain... down _there_.”

“Would you like me to take a look – put your mind at ease?” DeBryn then offered gently, allowing Morse all the time in the world to settle with the idea.

Finding it suddenly rather difficult to look the doctor in the eye, Morse rested his head back onto the thin pillow of the exam table and gave a small nod of acceptance, feeling both a resurgent swell of embarrassment in addition to a profound sense of relief. He remained deathly still as DeBryn proceeded to undo the buttons of his undershorts, raising his hips a fraction to allow the shorts to be shifted down a little, before freezing entirely as the doctor then gently took hold of his painfully aching member and carefully began to examine it. Not since his Army medical had he been touched in such a way by another man, and even then the exam hadn't been done by one of the few people in the world he legitimately called a friend. He tried to focus his mind on the sounds of the playing record, breathing shallow breaths so as to deter any unsanctioned bodily reactions as DeBryn took a swift tour of his nether-regions, only intaking a sharp breath when the doctor's fingers found the true epicentre of his pain.

“Alright, Morse,” DeBryn murmured placidly. “Nearly done now.” He then looked up towards Morse's face. “I imagine you've been quite tender. Have you passed any blood at all?”

“Not since Monday morning,” Morse replied thinly, his gaze remaining resolutely on the ceiling.

DeBryn nodded, returning his gaze to Morse's middle. “Well, that's something at least. The blood could just as easily have been from your Kidneys as anywhere else. They took quite a battering too.”

Feeling the doctor's hands finally leave his groin, Morse glanced down from the ceiling to check that DeBryn was indeed finished before swiftly pulling his undershorts back up and securing them. He was then assisted in sitting up by DeBryn, feeling his body groan and creak as his muscles were put to work once again.

DeBryn removed his gloves and walked over to the faucet in the wall to wash his hands as Morse gingerly slid off the table and began to dress himself. “You'll be sore for another few days yet,” he said over his shoulder, “but there is nothing I can see that should worry you unduly. The swelling should subside once you take the Ibuprofen I'll issue you with momentarily. The bruising elsewhere around your body will take a little longer to disappear, but as it's not visible with your suit on I'd imagine it'll cause you little problem at work besides the pain.”

Finishing doing up the buttons of his shirt, Morse nodded simply in reply to DeBryn's assessment. “So I can go straight back to work?” he asked hopefully.

Debryn turned to face Morse with his hands buried in a small white towel. “My dear chap, if I told you that you only had days to live, and that those days would be filled with unimaginable, screaming agony, am I right in thinking that you would _still_ ask me that same question?”

The wry reading of his 'determined' character made the corner of Morse's mouth curl up a little. “It seems you know me well.”

“Better than _most_ now, I'd hesitate to guess,” DeBryn retorted pithily, his words reducing Morse's smile back to a more scuttled expression.

“Thank-you, Max,” Morse offered earnestly against the silence that followed, choosing somewhat awkwardly to refer to DeBryn by his first name against his usual habit in light of their new level of _intimacy_ with one another – or it least in deference to the fact that the doctor had an entirely new level of understanding about his anatomy. “Truly. I won't forget all you've done for me.”

Accepting the kind words without any discernible emotion, DeBryn sauntered over to his desk and pulled open the top drawer, fishing out a small box of pills before closing the drawer and walking round to hand them over to Morse. “Two of these four times a day for the next few days, until the swelling subsides. If you pass any more blood, admit yourself to the hospital and have them check you over again. If all is well, perhaps you can thank me with a jar of something in the local public house next week.”

Placing the box into his coat pocket, Morse then did up the top button and nodded his head in agreement. “You're on.”

With their business concluded, DeBryn followed Morse out of his office and back into the main wing of the mortuary, which was still silent and pristine.

“For future reference, Morse, I have it on good authority that riot officers routinely make use of a decent jock-strap and box when heading out to public gatherings,” the doctor offered placidly as Morse headed on towards the exit. “Perhaps you might consider doing the same? Save yourself the repeating agony, not to mention keep alive the hope for any future Mrs Morse that a family might one day be on the cards...”

“I'll bear that in mind,” Morse replied, giving the doctor one last nod before heading out.

Walking stiffly over to the waiting jaguar in the hospital car park, Morse could see a small line of pipe smoke wafting up from the open driver's window.

“All sorted?” Thursday posed evenly as Morse settled back into the passenger seat.

“There's no cause for concern,” Morse replied simply. “Just got to wait a few days for the swelling and bruises to go down.”

Thursday nodded and put his hand on the wheel, though he paused just before turning the ignition key. “ _Oh_ , I passed the shop just now on my way out,” he said lightly, reaching down into the depths of his coat pocket. “Got you a little something.”

Thursday's hand returned into view clutching a small white paper bag, which he offered over to Morse.

Morse accepted the offering and peered inside cautiously, finding not a bunch of grapes (as he'd guessed from the feel of the bag) but instead a small collection of neatly wrapped humbug sweets. He looked over to Thursday. “I was half expecting it to be plums,” he mused, already resigning himself to the fact that he would likely find some sort of abused foodstuff on his desk before the week was out.

“I did enquire, but they were fresh out,” retorted Thursday drolly. “Still, those are just as good. My Joan swears by them. She used to insist on a bag whenever she had to go to the clinic as a kid.”

Morse dug out a humbug and offered it over to Thursday, whom declined with a small shake of his head as he started the engine. “Nah, you're alright. Never understood the appeal of them myself. Makes everything taste like toothpaste.”

Unwrapping the small sweet and popping it into his mouth, Morse found himself finally relaxing a little after the trials of the morning. “Are we going to lunch now, sir?”

“I think we've earned it, don't you?”

Morse certainly _did_ think both of them deserved a pint and perhaps some food, feeling his battered stomach growl with a new sense of yearning.


End file.
